


A Kind of Magic

by equestrianstatue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Miracled Orgasms, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-10 04:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21469117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: The first time it happened was an accident. No, honestly. It really was.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 871
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	A Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=51560#cmt51560) prompt on the Good Omens kink meme.
> 
> I haven’t tagged this as dubcon because I don't think that's a very accurate description of this fic, but: while nothing in this story is non-consensual, it does involve the instigation of sexual situations without receiving explicit consent, and the experience of losing control over one’s own body, in case this is something you would prefer not to read about.

The first time it happened was an accident. No, honestly. It really was.

Crowley had been stood at the end of his own bed. Before him had been Aziraphale, laid out like an oil painting, or what Crowley imagined oil paintings might look like if he’d ever applied himself to the principles of draughtsmanship. Aziraphale was propped up against the pillows, with one leg bent into a soft angle at the knee. His jacket and waistcoat were discarded, and he was busy undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Aziraphale liked taking his clothes off the human way, because, he said, it was all part of the journey. If it also had something to do with making Crowley have to wait for him for just a little bit longer, then this was, unfortunately, fairly well-played. He glanced up at Crowley as he thumbed the last shirt button free, and smiled. His shirt open, his eyes light, and his inevitably tartan socks peeking out from under the cuffs of his trousers, he looked like nothing so much as a gift half-unwrapped.

Crowley swallowed, and shifted from one foot to the other. Aziraphale wasn’t wrong: there was an element of tortuous pleasure in staying clothed for as long as was bearable. But in a moment, with a snap of his fingers, Crowley would set everything just so. He’d be naked at last, the lights would turn down low enough to bathe the room in a glimmering, perfect glow, and maybe he’d set a record spinning. Dvořák, if Crowley was feeling generous. T-Rex, if he wasn’t. And then, well. He felt like being good to Aziraphale, for a given value of good. Perhaps he’d suck his cock until he was all but incoherent, and then climb on top of it so that he could feel Aziraphale come apart inside him. Yes. That sounded all right.

Crowley raised one hand into the air, and clicked his fingers. The lights dimmed. There was the sound of the needle scratching on the record player in the hallway. Crowley’s clothes removed themselves from his body and hung themselves neatly in his wardrobe. But Crowley barely noticed any of this, because what Aziraphale did at the same moment was so supremely distracting that Satan himself could have burst through the floor and Crowley would probably have missed it.

Aziraphale gasped, loudly, on a sudden rush of breath. His whole body tensed, and his fingers, which had been about to unbutton his flies, clenched hard against the waistband of his trousers. He made a small, low noise in the back of his throat, looked at Crowley with what appeared to be great surprise, and then pushed his hips abortively up and off the bed. His lips parted, his head fell back against the pillows, and then, with a small shiver, he went still.

Crowley’s mouth was hanging open. After a moment, he closed it. Then he said, “Angel, did you just— ”

Aziraphale looked up at him again, flushed, astonished, and with a faint dusting of annoyance. He never much liked surprises. He drew in a very deep breath, and said, “_What_ did you just do?”

“What did _I_ just do?” repeated Crowley, looking with slowly-manifesting delight at his own fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb against them. “Wait, do you mean, because I—?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea.”

“Wasn’t mine either,” said Crowley, although the image of Aziraphale shuddering to a climax deep inside his own body was still drifting somewhere across his mind, and the tiny part of his brain still able to think thought: _Ah_. “Well. Not exactly.”

“Be that as it may, whatever it was,” said Aziraphale, who was clearly attempting to sound imperious and unfazed and not like someone who had just accidentally come in their trousers, “I think you’d better not do it again.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Oh, Aziraphale. I’m afraid I’m going to have to do it again.”

“No, I don’t think you are.”

“No,” said Crowley, unable to prevent himself from grinning, because, unbelievably, he was about to tell the truth. “I think I am. Because we’re going to need to be _very_ clear about what just happened there, aren’t we? If we’re not going to run the risk of, you know, accidental embarrassment elsewhere. So I think we’re going to need to work out _exactly_ what I just did.”

Aziraphale stared at him, logic wheeling visibly behind his eyes. “Ah. When you put it that way. I mean— oh, Hell.” He sighed. “Would you give me a moment?”

“Of course.”

“And would you turn that off?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Crowley had forgotten that he’d left this pile of records in the back seat of the car for a couple of weeks when he’d first brought them home, and the flat was currently reverberating to the beat of Dvořák’s _I Want To Break Free_. With a wave of Crowley’s hand, it scratched to a halt.

Crowley tried to look a little more sympathetic and a little less amused as Aziraphale went through the now rather undignified process of removing his trousers. He wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded, but old demonic habits died hard.

“Oh, look at that,” tutted Aziraphale, examining an incriminating stain, and shooting Crowley an accusatory glance.

“They’ll clean up good as new,” said Crowley, not that they had been new for getting on for a century now.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, folded the trousers, removed his underwear, and said, “Right then,” sounding so put-upon that Crowley laughed out loud.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said, kneeling on the bed, and wriggling up beside him. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

“No, I’m not embarrassed. It’s more that I’ve been rather cheated out of a portion of the evening that I was very much looking forward to, and now exactly the same thing is going to happen again.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Crowley, and leaned in to press his lips to Aziraphale’s. Even taut and huffy like this, Aziraphale softened under him immediately, shifted in grudging contentment as Crowley rested one thumb against his cheek. “Could go on for ages, the evening.”

“Mm,” agreed Aziraphale, vaguely, but he did reach up and brush his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“All right,” Crowley admitted, pulling back. “I think I may have been, um, distracted, when I set a few minor miracles in motion. Think a few of the spectral wires might have got crossed.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, sounding piercingly unimpressed.

“So if that was it,” Crowley said, “then it must just be a matter of concentration. So I’m going do it again on purpose now, to check. You ready?”

Aziraphale sighed again, but he adjusted himself on the bed, getting comfortable, propping an extra pillow behind his head. A beautiful, fussy Venus. “Yes, go on.”

Crowley licked his lips, and raised one hand into the air above them both. “Remember,” he said, “this is for the preservation of your own future dignity.”

Then he breathed in, and this time Crowley _really_ thought about it: what Aziraphale looked like when he came, the baring of his pale neck, the sudden curl of his toes. The helpless, crashing waves of pleasure that rolled off him as he spent himself in Crowley’s mouth, or writhing against the bed underneath him— or just now, with nothing but the empty air and half an idle thought. Crowley smiled, and snapped his fingers.

The first time had been an accident. This was something else. Aziraphale’s body pressed back into the bed, both hands digging into the charcoal covers, his fingers turning pink. He stayed quiet this time, aside from a series of short, sharp breaths that punched their way out of his throat as his eyes slid closed. Crowley, breath held, unblinking, tried to commit the whole picture to memory. Aziraphale’s mouth a red little O, his thighs shaking, his cock— impossibly, immediately hard— twitching, quivering, and coming over his stomach, again and again and again.

Eventually, his chest heaving and his hands flattening against the bed, Aziraphale stopped. He kept his eyes closed as he swallowed, but opened them when Crowley leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Aziraphale blinked up at him, mouth open, utterly dazed, and said nothing.

“Okay, come on,” said Crowley. “There is no way that wasn’t good. You can’t complain about that.”

Aziraphale, who could complain about anything if he really put his mind to it, made a weak, dismissive sort of noise. He closed his eyes again, and Crowley wondered with some surprise if he was actually going to fall asleep. Well. They probably both deserved that.

It wasn’t often that Crowley got to see Aziraphale like this. Not naked, or post-coital, or even uncharacteristically messy, all of which had become amazingly regular occurrences recently, but— unguarded, unaware. Most of the history of Crowley’s looking at Aziraphale had been based on the understanding that Aziraphale was looking back. Theirs had been a strange, uneven, complicated game, played for a long time in the trading of raised eyebrows and odd glances as much as tailing and tab-keeping. Aziraphale had been surprisingly good at not showing his hand, although Crowley had, at least, known that he had one. That they were both playing at the same table. A table long since overturned, of course, and the cards all scattered. But it was hard to forget six thousand years’ worth of unspoken rules, and it was still an odd, tickling thought, in this briefest of moments, that Aziraphale was not so much permitting Crowley to look as forgetting for a moment that he might be looking.

“Did it feel different?” Crowley asked, genuinely interested, nudging his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “From normal?”

“Erm,” mumbled Aziraphale, and then opened his eyes again. He coughed, pushed himself a little more upright against the pillows, and looked down at himself. “It was. Ah.” Then, having dragged the bare minimum of speech functions back into his throat, said, “I mean, it’s less like, you know, climbing, and climbing, and then falling. More like…” He shook his head, and then, apparently at a loss, balled one of his hands into a fist, and hit it into the flat of the other.

“Ah,” said Crowley, sagely. “Like being slammed into a wall.”

“Like having a wall slammed into you. From behind. While you’re in the middle of a desert and several hundred miles from the nearest wall.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Sounds quite good.”

“If you like walls.”

Crowley pushed himself upright next to Aziraphale, and sat with his legs crossed. “Right, so I’d better try— ”

“Oh, _don’t_ do it again,” said Aziraphale, slightly desperately. “I can’t think of a less dignified way to discorporate.”

“No, exactly, I’m going to _not_ do it. Need to check that, as well. So I’ll miracle something else while thinking about you, but not— thinking about you too much.” Aziraphale’s eyes softened, just a little. Crowley felt himself flushing, also just a little, involuntarily. “But you’d better get comfortable, just in case.”

“Oh, Lord,” muttered Aziraphale, and rubbed his hand over his face. “Right. Yes. Go on then.”

Crowley looked at him, the pink of his cheeks and the bow of his lips and his eyes hazy from too much pleasure, and thought— oh, I _could_ do it again. The temptation itched in his fingers, twitched in his gut. He was still a demon, after all. What did Aziraphale expect?

Crowley sighed, closed his eyes, and clicked his fingers.

Scrraaaatch. _It’s straaaaange but it’s true_, called Freddie from the hallway, but when Crowley opened his eyes, Aziraphale looked rather relieved. He was also no longer covered in his own come, and, as he would later discover, neither were his trousers.

“There,” said Crowley. “See? Now we know.”

“Now we know,” echoed Aziraphale. He breathed in. “I think you might have found the very definition of a frivolous miracle.”

“Don’t know about that,” said Crowley, mouth quirking. “Looked to me like the earth moved.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

Crowley leaned in to kiss him again, expecting to find Aziraphale soft and spent and yielding, and he was, to begin with. He opened his mouth, let Crowley lick the indelible flavour of heaven from behind his teeth, let Crowley’s body press its way sinuously against the warmth of his skin. But then Aziraphale brought his hands up to Crowley’s shoulders, gave him the sort of look that usually meant an auction of first editions didn’t know what was coming for it, and sat up.

“What d’you— ” Crowley got as far as saying, before he found himself flat on his back, lying the wrong way along the bed, Aziraphale kneeling astride him. Then, for a shivering moment, Aziraphale ran the tips of his fingers along Crowley’s cock, which had been waiting extremely patiently to be paid some attention, all things considered. Crowley said, “Ah,” and pushed his hips upwards, but Aziraphale took his hand away.

“This,” said Aziraphale, with a flash of something in his eyes, “is going to take several ages.”

Crowley let his head fall back against the bed. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s fair.”

*

Crowley didn’t do it again.

Really, he didn’t. Not even once.

He hadn’t given Aziraphale the satisfaction of saying it out loud, but, in all honesty, he wasn’t very interested in the shortcut. Not when the long way round meant the crook of Aziraphale’s smile and the sparkle of misbehaviour in his eyes as he pulled Crowley’s hand beneath his coat. Or the sight of Aziraphale wrung-out and moaning, exhausted by pleasure, as Crowley fucked him as slowly as he could, dragging him towards his end, one deep thrust at a time. Crowley knew a thing or two about the journey, all right.

But that didn’t mean that the possibility of the shortcut didn’t exist, and it certainly didn’t mean that Crowley was above using that possibility for his own entertainment. (Crowley wasn’t above anything. That was pretty much what falling meant.) All it took was a raised hand and a raised eyebrow, the flexing and curling of his fingers, to get a rise out of Aziraphale. He did it sometimes when Aziraphale was being particularly sanctimonious and deserved it, but he also did it sometimes because he was bored and wondered how Aziraphale would react if he did. While they were taking their seats at the Coliseum, or in the basement at Henry Pordes, or feeding the ducks for old times’ sake: _You know I could just—_ And Aziraphale’s round-eyed, scandalised shock, the way even the fuzz of his hair seemed to stand on end. _Crowley, you wouldn’t dare._

Aziraphale was quite right. Crowley wouldn’t dare. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale would forgive him, despite forgiveness technically being Aziraphale’s whole thing. But it was good fun nonetheless, that startled little frisson in the middle of an otherwise normal day or a perfectly unremarkable disagreement. And besides, just the thought was more than enough to be getting on with. The knowledge that he could undo Aziraphale there and then, if he wanted to, with nothing more than a snap of the fingers, and just how easily Aziraphale would come apart if he did. It made the pit of Crowley’s stomach feel warm and hungry, like a good temptation used to. Made him want to get home and undo Aziraphale the human way, as soon as inhumanly possible.

On the evening they wound up in Basement Sate, Crowley was a little bit drunk. Aziraphale was also a little bit drunk. Actually, it was the Thursday night of London Cocktail Week, meaning the average scale around them ranged from a little bit drunk to vomiting behind a bus stop, so on balance they were both doing pretty well.

Soho was giddy with friends, couples, and unwieldy work nights out, and for ostensibly opposite reasons, both of them tended to enjoy this sort of thing. For Aziraphale, it was the thousands of sparks of connection in the air: friends pressing drinks into each other’s hands, fumbled first kisses, small kindnesses in front of the mirror of every ladies’ toilet in a three-mile radius. Crowley was already looking forward to watching someone holding their shoes and screaming, “No offence, babe, but fuck you,” across the Seven Dials roundabout. It was generally a good night out for them both.

They were sat tucked away in the corner of the bar, and Aziraphale was buried somewhere in his second cocktail and third dessert. Crowley was feeling cheerful and at one with the world— the gloriously inventive, greedy, inebriated human world— and couldn’t quite keep the mischief out of his fingertips. It was too easy, somewhere like this, low-lit and full of people who were just a little too highly-strung. Since he and Aziraphale had arrived, the ice machine had gone on the blink, all three card readers were playing up, and the music kept being interrupted by Spotify adverts, despite the fact that the increasingly irate bar supervisor was definitely logged in to Premium.

“You do realise,” Aziraphale said, who was eating something that claimed rather improbably to be fried milk, “that you’re now unemployed, don’t you?”

“It’s in my nature,” Crowley shrugged. “Can’t shake it.”

“You’ve tried, have you?”

“Very hard.”

“You couldn’t just let them all have a nice evening?” said Aziraphale, glancing around the room.

“They are,” said Crowley. They were, despite his best efforts. Couldn’t keep ’em down, eh? Humans for you. “Anyway, you’re unemployed too, remember. Shouldn’t bother you.”

“I happen to be a good person.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “One out of two, maybe.”

“It’s just an expression. Oh,” Aziraphale added, pursing his lips, as a girl next to the bar threw a drink in her friend’s face, “come on, no need to be so gauche.”

“I didn’t do that!” said Crowley, half-indignant, half-gleeful. It was true. He hadn’t, or at least certainly not directly enough to have been expecting it.

“Well, if you think this is getting on my nerves, it’s not working.”

Crowley said, “Believe it or not, it’s not all about you.” This was also true, sometimes.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, giving him a rather disbelieving look. Bit hubristic, he could be, but also, to be fair, quite perceptive. “Well, if you can’t behave yourself…”

“Then what?” Crowley asked, leaning forwards again.

“Then we’ll go home,” said Aziraphale, who was still eating the milk.

“I think you’ll find I’m being extremely restrained,” said Crowley. “And that if I actually wanted to cause you trouble, it would be very easy.” Shrugging, he wiggled his right hand in the air, and rubbed the tips of his fingers together, the foreshadow of a click.

This gesture, over the past few weeks, had in and of itself become somehow obscene. It got much the reaction Crowley had expected. Aziraphale’s fork clattered against his plate, and he shifted in the plush, padded chair on the other side of the table.

“Oh— ” said Aziraphale, irritated. He left the customary gap where, Crowley tended to think, the words _fuck off_ manifested themselves in the silence.

“C’mon,” said Crowley, who could feel the enjoyable waves of impotent frustration coming off a man two tables over who’d just realised he’d had his phone nicked. “Live a little. Nobody would notice.” He smirked, and pressed his foot to Aziraphale’s calf under the table.

“Do you think?” asked Aziraphale, drily.

“It’s dark. Ish. You’re discreet. Ish. You could probably get away with— ”

This was as far as Crowley got before Aziraphale lifted one hand, looked him straight in the eye, and flicked his fingers in Crowley’s direction. There was a liminal millisecond in which Crowley thought that Aziraphale had somehow just turned off his voicebox. Then he thought, to his embarrassment, _Oh, God_.

It was like a hook had settled itself at the base of his spine, and was pulling him forward. Only the hook was also dragging all sorts of other parts of him into the wrong places, or maybe the right places, but far too quickly, and entirely without his say-so. The throttle of his heart was tugged wide open, blood roaring through him, and something in his brain fizzled with fuel. He was— he was _high_, almost, and hard, immediately, cock swollen and shocked against the inside of his jeans.

Crowley felt his body bending in on itself, and he planted his hands on the table, eyes still fixed on Aziraphale, who was staring at him like he’d just come out of a cloche. He opened his mouth to say something, though he was blessed if he knew what; but before he’d had a chance to divert a single neuron of his brain to the task, he came, his hips shifting in short, shocked spasms under the table. He gritted his teeth and hissed, the warm coils of irresistible pleasure curling through him, heating his skin, until it was over.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, softly.

“Well?” Crowley croaked out.

“Well what?”

“_Did_ anybody notice?”

“I— ” said Aziraphale, who was still looking at him. “I couldn’t say.”

“Mmph,” said Crowley, and rolled his spine, cracked his neck. “_Ah_. Jesus Christ. You bastard.”

“Oh, come now.”

“How did you even know you could do that?”

“It wasn’t likely to only work one way, was it?”

“Could’ve done. Could’ve been a demonic thing. You might’ve done something terrible to me by trying.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Split me down the middle. Burned all my hair off.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and then raised his hand. “Do you want me to check?”

Crowley coughed out a startled laugh. “Do _you_?” he said, and was pleased to discover he had just about enough muscle control to lift his own hand into the air, resting two fingers against his thumb.

After a moment, Aziraphale laughed too. He dropped his hand to the table. “Right. That’s quite enough of that. Let’s go home.”

“Home,” Crowley agreed. What Aziraphale meant by this was the bookshop, and Crowley wondered when he’d started to use the word to mean the same thing. He wondered, in fact, when he’d started using the word at all.

Aziraphale picked up his glass and drained it. “Clean yourself up, then, before we go.”

“No,” said Crowley, his mouth twitching. If one of them was going to be embarrassed by this, it wasn’t him. “You’ve made your bed. Now you have to take it home with you.”

Aziraphale did something dangerously close to rolling his eyes, and sort of winced, and said, “Well, rather you than me.”

Crowley tried to pay by card, remembered the machines weren’t working, discovered his own abilities had become slightly wobbly in the aftermath of Aziraphale’s intervention, and eventually had to get Aziraphale to miracle up some cash. But they were, all in all, he reckoned, even.

**Author's Note:**

> I once had a dessert at Basement Sate and it's probably the closest I've ever come to a religious experience. I think Aziraphale would agree. Nobody at Basement Sate has paid me to say this, but it would be great if they wanted to.
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, you can also reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/189132364387/a-kind-of-magic-equestrianstatue-good-omens)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Kind of Magic, by equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21669586) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)


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